


Just Twenty Minutes More

by daisylore



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon-Compliant, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7613074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisylore/pseuds/daisylore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur returns home from work, Eames typically greets him with a delicious home-cooked meal. This time, Eames has to improvise with - well. </p><p>An established domestic relationship with tooth-rotting levels of fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Twenty Minutes More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tweed-and-paisley (NuclearGers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuclearGers/gifts).



> This work is a thank-you fic for, and based on, [this gorgeous artwork](http://tweed-and-paisley.tumblr.com/post/147433438263/for-the-anon-that-asked-for-a-pic-of-eames-giving) by the inimitable [tweed-and-paisley](http://tweed-and-paisley.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thank you to [roosterbox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/roosterbox/pseuds/roosterbox) for her work as an amazing beta.

_It’s fucking cold out,_ he thought.

It was fucking cold out and he was drained _._

It was fucking cold out and Arthur was drained and his stomach was painfully empty, but at least he was almost home. Home, where Eames was waiting for him, like he was every evening, with his warm smile, a sweet kiss, and dinner ready on the table.

Arthur didn’t know when exactly things had become so domestic, but he loved it. It seemed to have happened gradually. They’d both retired from the criminal world when they got married. Soon after, Arthur had found a corporate position militarizing high-level employees as protection against extraction. Really though, he was almost more useful to the company when he started poking holes in their security topside – years of running point and paying attention to the details turned out to pay handsomely. He was compensated so well, in fact, that one day, when he was looking at their finances, Arthur turned to Eames.

“Remind me why we need two stable incomes again?”

“Darling, I’m touched that you would even refer to my weekly wages as a stable income,” Eames quipped, not even taking his eyes off of his crossword puzzle.

Eames’s forging prowess didn’t translate easily to the legal world of employment, unfortunately, and his thieving and fencing skills were obviously an even worse fit. Arthur had struggled when they were writing Eames’s resume. Most of his real work experience was out of the question, obviously. Logically, Arthur knew that “can seduce you with a single glance” and “dangerously sexy motherfucker with the power to make you trust him in an instant” and “dedicated to his accomplices” and “good with a gun, if you know what I mean” were not _ideal_ additional skills, but they were all truly _Eames_. Everything about him was consummate ability and charm; the magic of him just couldn’t be faithfully portrayed on a flat sheet of paper. He was too vibrant and brilliant a person to be reduced to such banal descriptors. They simply didn’t do his Eames justice.

And, tragically, most of his interests were not easily marketable outside the criminal world.

Arthur had briefly suggested that Eames teach acting, given how convincing his forges always were, but Eames had dismissed the idea immediately, saying he didn’t want to spend his days instructing a bunch of “entitled young brats.” Arthur had briefly wondered when Eames had even formed an opinion on the younger generations – Arthur didn’t know when exactly they had become so old, either – until Eames had launched into his amusing little set rant about his extremely prolific sister and her children (Arthur did have to admit that Eames was sort of right; they were insufferable). So, teaching was out, even if for slightly ridiculous reasons. If Eames wasn’t going to enjoy it, then why push it?

Eames eventually found a job working at a bookstore. He had assumed he would get to read all the time, but it didn’t exactly pan out that way. His librarian qualifications (forged a little too well, unfortunately) excited the proprietor so much that she immediately assigned Eames the task of organizing the store, which was a frightful mess. Eames frantically returned home early that first afternoon to learn the Dewey Decimal System.

No matter how much Eames pretended the work was fulfilling (and he did a good job – it wasn’t terribly difficult to please Arthur with plans for enforcing some structure, after all), he was bored out of his mind, and Arthur could tell. So that day, Arthur did something about it.

“Eames, you should quit your job.”

“What?” Eames put down his pencil and was looking straight at Arthur, clearly a bit surprised.

“I mean it. Do something you enjoy instead. Take a risk. We don't need a second income.”

Eames looked affronted for a moment.

“I don’t mean you can’t provide,” Arthur hurriedly added. “I just mean you don’t have to. You used to talk about writing, Eames. Do you still want to do that?”

“I never really thought it was a realistic possibility,” Eames said slowly, considering the idea.

“And that was because of money, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think it’s realistic now, if you want it to be.” Arthur looked at him, then, with complete sincerity. “I’m happy with my position and we’re comfortable financially. I want you to do what you want. Maybe it’s a huge monetary success, maybe it isn’t, but the point is that there’s no pressure. Do whatever you want.”

Eames paused, processing for a few moments before meeting Arthur’s gaze. “I think I’d like to try that.”

Arthur beamed.

The next day, Arthur tore apart the room that had initially been designated as his office and started turning it into a writing nook for Eames. Eames would use it during the day while Arthur was at work. Then, when Arthur got home, they would both be off the clock, and that door would get closed. He didn’t let Eames in until he finished it, and when Eames walked in to see the large oak desk, the soft carpeting under his feet, and the stupidly, wonderfully loud patterned curtains, he simply wrapped Arthur in a big hug and said, “thank you.”

Eames never really needed to thank him, though. Arthur _loved_ knowing that Eames was at home doing something he loved. It motivated him at work every day: he wasn’t just working to entertain himself or satisfy his craving for the odd challenge – he was working to support his husband’s dreams. The thought of it got him through every long meeting, every boring administrative task, and every inane conversation he was forced to have with his bosses. And he was happier knowing that Eames was happy. His mood had improved considerably after quitting the job at the shop, and, within a few weeks, he was actually excited to talk about what he had been writing when Arthur returned from work. It was glorious.

Eames was, of course, brilliant at it. His characters, like his forges, were impossibly convincing. It turned out that Eames had the talent that Arthur had lacked months earlier when trying to commit Eames to paper. He could construct characters who leapt off the page – they were incredibly detailed, rich, and utterly human. They made Eames’s stories real.

Arthur supposed that was when the domesticity had really begun to develop. Arthur was always tired when he got home from a long day at work, but, on the contrary, Eames seemed to derive energy from his day spent alone. One day, knowing that Arthur had a tedious afternoon, Eames decided to play the househusband, and had a drink and dinner ready for Arthur when he opened the door. With the exception of the ridiculously frilly apron that Eames insisted upon wearing, Arthur loved all of it.

As silly as it sounded, it warmed him to know that he might work all day to financially support them, but really, _Eames_ was the one caring for _him_ , waiting attentively each evening to make sure Arthur felt at home when he left work. Soon, it happened more often than not. One day, Arthur returned home and couldn’t remember the last time that the house wasn't warm, fragrant scents emanating from the kitchen.

Arthur felt a bit guilty at first, but Eames always insisted upon it. He said that he liked having an element of structure to his day – the afternoon deadline of having to start dinner made him work more efficiently, and having a task he knew he could do well helped relieve tension on the days when his writing hit a wall.

On the weekends, they would always do role reversal – it made Arthur feel less like a spoiled dauphin, and Eames found it fun. Eames would go out in the afternoon on Saturday for a few hours, and Arthur would make dinner for him. Then, on Sunday, they would cook an indulgently late brunch together, making a tremendous mess in the kitchen. Somehow, while they were each fairly adept cooks individually, when they joined forces, something seemed to destructively interfere between them. Even the simplest recipes became disasters that had them choking for breath between peals of laughter as they rolled on the floor in a mess of spilled flour or frantically tried to silence the smoke alarm.

Sometimes they managed to salvage their meal, but often, the experiment just ended in them resting on the floor together, giggling and cramming each other’s mouths with the individual components of their abandoned masterpiece. It was wonderfully fun, although Arthur still had blueberry stains in his favorite jumper.

Today, Arthur was really just looking forward to the comfort of returning home. It had been a stressful week with long hours, and he just couldn’t wait for Eames’s warm embrace, a nice home-cooked meal (he had been so busy during lunchtime that he had barely eaten, just snacked on processed crap from the vending machine), and bedtime, when they’d curl up together while Eames read to him until he fell asleep. They were four chapters into _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , and Friday was Eames’s turn to read.

He got to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside. It smelled _heavenly_. His mouth salivated just at the scent of butter that suffused the house. The foyer was delightfully warm, likely from a combination of the heating and the oven. Arthur called out to Eames as he kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat.

Eames emerged from the kitchen, oven mitt on one hand, and greeted Arthur with a quick kiss.

“How was your day, darling?” Eames asked. He looked beautiful. He was barefoot, wearing an odd combination of suit trousers and a t-shirt. The t-shirt, light blue but branded with a Union Jack, was obscenely tight, because it had belonged to Arthur when he was a teenager. It was an embarrassingly cliché souvenir from a trip to England that Eames, to his eternal delight, had found crammed down at the bottom of Arthur’s drawer. He insisted on wearing it all the time, and Arthur might have cringed whenever he saw it, except that it stretched over Eames’s shoulders and biceps and pecs in the most delicious way. His hair was tousled his lips were sinfully full – they were always that way, admittedly, but looking at them still turned Arthur’s cheeks a bit pink, so he thought they were always worthy of remark.

“It’s over, that’s what matters,” Arthur said, smiling a little. “That smells incredible. What’s in the oven?”

“Beef wellington,” Eames said, looking a bit proud of himself.

“You’re a saint,” Arthur responded. “I’ll just go get changed and then we’ll eat, yeah?”

“That would be a wonderful,” Eames began, looking a bit sheepish, “except that it won’t actually be done for another twenty minutes.”

Arthur felt as if he could collapse.

“Darling, your face just fell in the most alarming way,” Eames said, his eyes wide. “I got a bit distracted working this afternoon, so dinner had a bit of a late start.”

“No, it’s okay,” Arthur insisted, before his damned stomach betrayed him with a loud, interminable rumble. “Uh, I maybe didn’t have a proper lunch today,” he admitted.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry. Tonight was clearly not the evening to try something new; I could have had something simple on the table ages ago.” Eames genuinely looked upset.

“Eames, don’t be sorry, really. I should be able to wait a few minutes.”

“Hmm, you shouldn’t have to, though.” Eames looked him over before calming his tone to something less frantic and more confident. “You’ve had such a long week, darling. At least let me help you relax while we’re waiting?”

Arthur pretended that this needed consideration. “Well, okay, I guess,” he said, in a mock-resigned tone.

Eames tossed the oven mitts back into the kitchen and walked Arthur slowly backwards into the bedroom, gently pushing him down to sit on the bed and then kneeling before him. Eames leaned up for a long kiss before slipping off Arthur’s socks and trousers.

“Lie back and just relax, darling,” Eames said. He removed Arthur’s tie, undid the top few buttons on his shirt, and then peeled off his boxers. Arthur stretched his hand out to rest his forefinger on Eames’s bottom lip for a second before relaxing back. Then, Eames took Arthur’s soft cock into his mouth.

His mouth felt wonderfully wet and warm, and his tongue laved carefully at Arthur until he began to harden. Eames moaned around it, encouraging Arthur’s cock to stiffen to peak fullness, and then, satisfied, slid off it just to suckle at the tip for a while.

“Mmm, that feels good, Eames,” Arthur murmured as he closed his eyes and let the initial wash of pleasure soak into him. Eames was incredible at this. He always built him up slowly like this, waiting until Arthur hips were bucking up for more before intensifying his motions.

Eames licked at him gently for a little while, his tongue tenderly lapping along his length and head. Arthur made little pleased noises in response to encourage him. His hands were on either side of Arthur, gripping at his legs to hold him in place while he squirmed with the sensation.

Then, he took him back into his mouth – not deep, but it still felt warm and slick – and hummed a little, creating a light vibration that had Arthur’s breath catching in a whiny little moan.

Eames hollowed out his cheeks and then started to properly suck on him, not enough to get him off but enough to get him closer. Arthur looked up at him and saw that Eames’s cheeks were as pink as Arthur’s felt. Suddenly, Arthur felt intoxicated by the sight of Eames with Arthur’s cock in his mouth, with Eames’s eyes closed as if in pleasure. It didn't matter how long they’d been together or how many times they’d done this, Arthur was always overcome with love and lust by the way that Eames cared for him like this.

Arthur let out a deep sigh and then moved his right hand to lie atop Eames’s head. His fingertips sank into Eames’s soft hair. His touch wasn’t forceful, but he let the weight of his hand just rest there on Eames. He held him so he could feel Eames there, feel that he was real, feel that he was Arthur’s.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Arthur whispered as Eames started to bob his head up and down.

“You’ve got that all wrong, darling,” Eames responded, popping his lips off of Arthur for a second to lick at him a little. “I don’t deserve you. I ask myself every day how I got so lucky.”

“Idiot,” Arthur murmured fondly.

Eames smiled back up at him and then took him back into his mouth, and Arthur let his hand rise and fall with Eames’s head as he started to bob his head a little faster and go down a little deeper. When Arthur saw Eames, his lips shiny and swollen and stretched, closing his eyes again, Arthur laid his head back and closed his, too, and just focused on how perfect he felt.

Soon, Arthur could feel his pleasure cresting up, and he moaned, loud this time to let Eames know. Eames lifted his mouth off and continued his attentions with his hand instead, keeping his pace exactly the same, not wanting to rush Arthur. The pleasure coiled in his stomach and built and built until it felt inexorable, like it was only a matter of time, and then he was coming, trembling a little as his orgasm pulsed through him.

Arthur let out a shaky little sigh as he finished, and Eames stroked his clean hand over Arthur’s hips and stomach as he settled down before dashing to the bathroom for a second. Arthur heard the faucet run, and then Eames returned with a wet washcloth.

After Eames cleaned them up, they just lay there on the bed together for a few minutes, Arthur calming down and Eames holding him, kissing him occasionally until, blessedly, the timer went off.

“Okay, up we get, darling,” Eames said, hauling himself up before going to the closet and tossing Arthur some comfortable, more casual clothing. Arthur unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, tossed it into the hamper, and slipped on the clean things. He rolled a thick pair of woolen socks on as well and then headed towards the kitchen.

“Arthur,” Eames said, turning towards Arthur as he walked back out into the dining room, “do you remember how I said that I didn’t deserve you? And you disagreed?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, it turns out that the wellington needs to rest for half an hour after you take it out of the oven.” Eames blushed hard, looking more embarrassed than ever. “So I think I may win that particular debate.”

Arthur took a deep breath. “Eames, it’s a good thing I love you,” he said, pretending to be stern.

“Forgive me?”

Arthur walked over to Eames to kiss his red cheeks. “To think,” he teased between pecks, “that, after over a decade of being shot at for a living, I would die of starvation in our own home.”

“We should just eat dessert first, while we’re waiting,” Eames said quickly. “It’s ready, just chilling in the refrigerator. It’s an elderflower and lemon mousse; I thought it would be a nice, light treat after such a hearty dinner.”

“Sounds delicious,” Arthur replied, licking his lips. “But I can think of something much sweeter.” He glanced at Eames, trailing his eyes up and down his body, hooked his fingers in Eames’s collar, and hauled him to the bedroom.

++

“Fuck, that’s good,” Arthur said after Eames had given him his first taste, his eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. “More, Eames.”

Eames gazed at Arthur and smiled. He loved him like this, demanding and a little greedy.

‘Yeah, yeah, just there.” He looked up to see Eames laughing at him as he handed Arthur his replenished plate. “What? You know I don’t like it when the salad and the meat touch.”

“Yes, I think I know just how you like it,” Eames smirked.

“Just not when,” Arthur teased.

“You’re incorrigible, darling. Utterly and completely.” He looked at Arthur fondly, fixed himself a plate, and then gave him a playful shove towards the dining room.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
